


A Game of Manipulation

by Yin_Silver (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Aged-Up Character(s), Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Major plot change, Manipulation, Mentions of Other ASoIaF Characters, Mentor/Protégé, My AU, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-08 19:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Yin_Silver
Summary: It's his game. He can't slip up, she cannot know. So they must play, play Littlefinger's game of manipulation.





	1. Petyr | Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my Au, by that I mean this takes (draft/trashed)plot from an original story I'm working on(except it's slight changes era). Petyr and Sansa for example are taking the place of the original Characters in that story. Although, nothing else changes; It's still the same world.
> 
> (P.s. sorry for the short chapter, I just kinda wanted to test how this story will turn out, so for now it will be left for debate. If I make another chapter, it'll definitely be longer.)

A dying fire crackled with growing ash. Red wine swirled delicately. Gray-green eyes staring into the fading flame. Slim rich fingers playing with silver colored tufts.  
An unbuttoned sleevless green waistcoat missing it's mockingbird, the ink drowned feather resting in his open palm. Petyr had downed more glasses than usual, although he didn't care. The night was already far from ordinary.  
In the lavish desk chair, he contemplated. Hand wavering when trying to ease the ever current flowing thoughts. Despite the fire, he had found himself cold. Colder than ever, the southern air no longer holding a warmth. All it took to throw him off the current, was a Raven and a girl that hadn't been seen in two years.  
It took the cold whispers of guilt in the air and the memory of innocent blue eyes scarred with murder.

Glass clattered against the solid surface, the black tipped feather falling away as it had from a bird. Ring marked fingers running through his dark hair, a soft sigh passing his wet lips, vision blurred with intoxication. Eyes closed and mind spinning, the possibilities and scenarios playing about in his head. The last of house Stark, _that is known_ , will be left in his care. A letter that contained such bittersweet news to Petyr. It screwed with the priorities of Littlefinger, yet it left a lingering warmth in him. The boy that he thought was long gone. Ever so gently he leaned back, the soft meadow green cushion cradling his travel sore spine. Those grayed eyes flicking over to the stars that rested outside, searching above the flames into the midnight canvas that always seemed to hold untold answers.  
He remembered her, how could he forget? A girl who was just like him, grieving in the garden of Winterfell, secluded from the other guests inside. Clenching harder, hands balled into his hair as the memory grew more familiar. The snow coating the ground playfully, wind coming every so often to come sweep the gentle white powder away. Tully red hair laying gently on nothing but a dress. Blood dripping from those soft hands, those gentle digits pricked by a thorn. Her calm wolf blue eyes brimming with soft bitter tears.

"Iiar," he whispered to himself. The doubt resurfacing from two years ago. Unbeknownst to him, the dinner was supposed to go differently. He had a hand in the feast of spilled wolf's blood but, oh, how for once in a long time a slither of guilt planted itself abaft in his mind. "It was necessary." He murmured, getting lost between memory and reality. Everything had been necessary, to Littlefinger, every action and choice was necessary. Having her under his care wasn't a choice that Littlefinger made, it was impulse that had struck from Petyr. _Quiet Petyr, couldn't just stay hidden could he?_ "If she knew…" the words leaving him, uttered.  
She was different than Cat—than Catelyn. Something Petyr took note of. Sansa Stark had a trait different from any Stark he had known, she was malleable, a perfect student to teach. "But if she knew." He withdrew a breath, contemplating on how things would go. A plan would be drawn, their meetings already inferred in his minds. Expectations of her responses taken lightly, willing to work around what truly will be said.

The cold wind snapped outside, flames finally put to rest, and wine stained glass dry of the liquid. He had done this to himself, promised that last fool of a Stark he take care of her. _You clod_ , he reminded himself. Steps uneasy as treading to look at the embers. What was he to do? Surely having her under his care for too long will cause some minor conflict, but the chances of something minor can lead to something big. He couldn't risk that, wouldn't risk that. Littlefinger had self control he shouldn't worry.  
Use the girl, his mind contemplated. Those now emerald eyes, staring into the ghost of what used to be a beautiful flame. As he sat there, hunched over and knees to his chest, a idea began to brew and a snakelike smile forming at his lips.

When she arrives, the game will begin.


	2. Sansa | 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A castle of beauty, hiding its blood soaked history. Just like the man in front her, Lord Baelish. A murderer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is an absolute mess. What am I going to do about it? I'm just gonna continue winging it.

There it stood, old and forgotten. Ashen and foreboading. It was quite a sight, even from far away it held a beauty of it's own. When approaching, a gate that shinned like valyrian steel began to rise.  
Sansa's young blue eyes gazing upon such a decrepit pulchritude. The place was probably the first thing she considered alluring in a long while. The world had lost its beauty a long time ago for her. The castle held color that the earth around her had seemed to have lost.

A chuckle came from behind her, a light one that had become quite familiar on her journey. The man of a brotherhood with no name, Beric Dondarrion. —Hired to bring her here and drop her off—. "Quite a site, isn't it?" Hoofs of the horses treaded on, her eyes never looking away from the castle ahead. "It is, who lives there again?" His voice soft with youth answered honestly. "I don't know, my lady." The words leaving as an unfinished thought, continuing on with a faster response. "Although, I do know he pays handsomely!" A sentence used as a cover-up. Keep her pretty little mind clueless of the Lord that waited. She knew better, but the man behind her was kind; it was unnecessary to push.  
  
They treaded closer, the Vale gone, all of it gone. Just her and the Lord in question. Deep down, as they circled the pretty well, she was scared. The man was standing right there, and he was someone she knew. The man who wore a pin of birds who mocked.

Piercing eyes of a grey-green hue, hair as dark as wine with ash painted at his temple. Sansa remembered him, recognized that crooked smirk.  
The horses came to a halt, her dark sapphire dress no longer flowing. A chill rushing through, as warm hands met her waist, and those cold forest green eyes stared without the emotion in his grin. She wanted to run, but her feet didn't move. His voice had placed a quiet spell, as soon as those naturally smooth lips began to move, and that rehearsed affable tone leaving his slim body.  
"My Lady, it has been a while since I've seen you. It's an honor to be your new caretaker." Two spaces, he took, hand placed out awaiting hers. Her small white gloved fingers slid over his, a gentle grasp on his taw covered palm for stability. "Lord Baelish, it has been a long time." It was odd, all that courage and amazement was gone; Voice now quiet as a mouse.

A louder yet softer voice called over hers. Everything now a blur as she waited like a little girl with her hand placed in that murderer's. "I'll take my leave, M'lord. I believe I have to go find that lil' lass's younger sister." That brought a smile to her face, though it left her confused. Although, Her eyes focused on him, glaring with ill intent. The castle lost the feel, he took away what brought a smile to her. Beric bowed, his worn and torn leather breastplate folding with him, a final genuine smile. One kind final gesture before… leaving.

The air was cold, only the lady and the Lord. Behind, a castle frozen in bloody history and painted over with a color of beauty. As the horses faded into the dew of the morning, he turned and grabbed what she brought. A grin plastered to his lips, no words being uttered as she followed him in. In her eyes, she saw a murderer, one that never got his hands dirty. That smile feigned to lure in idiots like her father.  
It wasn't Lord Baelish's fault, she remembered the events easily. Her father's blood was on another man's hands, but it was the council's plan. _The Lannister's._

"I assume you remember me, my Lady?" Small talk, a sound amusement dancing in his voice. "Yes, I do. My Lord." Her words biting, with a soft touch.

"Good," he beamed, "that'll make this game much easier."  


  
  



	3. Sansa| let's begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little plot that makes no sense, so no plot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some filler, my brain always runs dry while I'm trying to make a story and that's when I begin to feel my writing go down and sound horrible.

Halls lit with dim flames and the quiet whispers of the wind seemed like a normality in Harrenhal. This strange place of old stone. Sansa moved with unease. The conversation still fresh in her mind. What game? The situation she was in was not something to be taken lightly, more or less a game.  
He was a man of tricks, surely there was more to it.  
She wandered down the hall, hand dragging along the cold walls. In a different time, her hand would be tracing the walls of Winterfell. Stones that had a windfall of warmth. The grey bricks moist with heat. Harrenhal strayed far from that, the chilling breaths leaving the old stone walls making it feel alive and haunted. A perfect place for a man like him, cold and unwanted. Emotionless and decieveing.  
She reached the doors, her room waiting on the other side. With a soft push it gave way, the Lord himself standing on the other side, turning with feigned surprise.  
  
"My Lady, Sansa." He greeted carefully, his body facing her fully.

"I apologise—I was just making minor adjustments to your room." He dragged on, Sansa not wanting to hear another word. Yet, she listened. "Thank you, my Lord. Although, I'd like to rest. Would you mind leaving?" She asked rather rudely, he should expect such treatment. After that night, no family of hers was left. Arya fled, Jon ran off into the night, and Bran…poor Bran. Her eyes flashed to his, he was now surprisingly close. A small thin smile laying on his face. "Yes, I'm sure you're exhausted." He started lowly, the Mockingbird glued to his chest shinning from the fire light. "Besides, I'll need you to be well rested; I want you down at my study on the morrow." He bowed, placing an amiable kiss to her hand, those grey-green eyes hiding something she couldn't decipher. Retreating back to his full short height, pulling her doors closed as he left. Her mind rushing with questions—the need to know what was planned, what was going in his mind. Did he think she would forget? Carefully she placed herself on the bed. The plush mattress caressing her body, eyes closing with peace. She wished nothing happened that night, he was a nice man back then. To those innocent eyes of hers, he was nothing but a Lord with gentle smiles and fingers of gold.

Now he was a Lord all pretend smirks and bloody hands.  
She knows he did it, he had to have had a hand in it.

Right? She closed her eyes, the lack of warmth being fulfilled by the bed. "Hate him," she whispered to herself. "He is no man to trust." She convinced herself, kicking off the dusty black riding boots. The room fit her, it was sickening how deep down she loved it. Her eyes scanned the room. Colors of royal blue and dark greys, minimal things for a narrow room. It was everything she wanted, reminded her of home, and it was making her sick. Again she muttered to herself, "your supposed to hate him." The lids of her eyes heavy with sleep. Why did he have to volunteer, to come by and take her under his care? She was tired, confused, and scared. Sleep was the only answer, as it washed over her like the waves of a blue sea.

The morning came faster than wanted, the bright yellow star peaking out from under the horizon. While Sansa laid awake, the rest of the castle seemed to be asleep. Every servant was out of sight as she traveled out of her room into the quiet hallway.  
Feet treaded light over red carpet, the borrowed night gown brushing over her knees as she made her way down. To the study. His. Although there was no point. As she reached a corner, he was there. A tray in his hands and his hair the results of the morning. He smiled, thin and fox like. "Morning, My lady." Lord Baelish said, a slight joy dancing in voice. Gently, he place the silver platter in her hands. His eyes staring at her with secrets. "I thought I'd have to go wake you up, I brought breakfast to make you feel welcome." His words feigned nervousness, a pretend friendly act she knew all to well—but it seemed stuck to him, like sap he just couldn't wash off—a mask that was nailed to his skull. "Thank you, Lord Baelish. I guess I should apologise for my behavior from earlier, you seem to be trying to make amends." She retorted, the words sounding genuine in her head yet drenched in sarcasm when spoken aloud. "Well, you'll be here until we can gain a solid hold on your old home. It's best I try to make you comfortable at least." He muttered, turning on his heel.

"Now, we shall head to my study. If you want to figure out what I know about that night, you'll have to play my little game. You already have the 'not trusting me' part down." He chuckled, walking away with a speed so fast that Sansa almost stumbled over her own sleepy feet trying to catch up.

She looked at him, cold eyes drilling holes into his back, while he waited for her to finish; browsing through the books in the hall he did, oblivious to her glaring. Maybe just ignoring it. When they reached the door he stopped. Hesitating, lips tight in thought. "I know what happened that night, you blame me... giving you the truth isn't my forte—understand that when this begins, you'll have to try." He said, glancing at her from over his shoulder, hands tight on the door handles.  
His voice had caught her attention, it was a different person who spoke to her. A voice with warmth and an accent that wasn't from Westeros.  
  
Her thoughts were caught off, the dark velvet doors opening and the room of silver revealed.  
"Finish your fare," the words started, now leading on and dipped in his normal cold tone. "We can finally begin."


	4. Petyr and Sansa| Distant memory

"Lord Stark, she's your daughter!" The words slipped like a man on ice. Eddard Stark paced around the room, his dark fur cloak whipping at his heels. Petyr was still new to this game, new to lies and deception. He knew well, knew that he let true emotions show. A constant battle with is mind. With Littlefinger.  
"She's not safe here, Baelish. Her mother's dead, brother paralyzed, and both Jon and Arya are bloody gone!" He shouted, two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Lack of sleep more apparent on Ned's aged face. A feat Petyr would pick up when he knew what it felt like to have the weight of the world on a man's shoulders.  
"I know I shouldn't trust you, but you're all I really have…I've seen how you eye my daughter—always casting your mockingbird wings over her like a shield." He chuckled darkly, humor lacking in the laugh. He continued, Petyr staying silent. The best answer on moments such as this, a trick he learned after getting to bold in an argument.  
  
"Robert died last night, I'm not dumb. This feast will be my last—i'm afraid... I'll be a wolf pinned under Lion's claws." The metaphor neighbored with a grimace on his lips. The man, to be honest, didn't care for the boy who was immobilized. But it was courtesy. "What of your son…Bran? Rickon and Robb died quite a long time ago. Surely you don't want to leave him to fend for himself?" Ned paced, walking towards him. A warm firm hand digging into his shoulder—dark grey eyes glaring into his own 'innocent' green ones. The man was serious, it had shone like the fire burning in the Lord's chambers.  
The boy, what Petyr once was, danced sickly with triumph. It was true, Littlefinger had no control over what happened between them. Each interaction he made with her was all Petyr, despite a nagging that stood in the back of his head. Littlefinger was a new facade that took over slowly everyday, except when he met the lady. A girl whose hair which was kissed by fire. He looked up, finding himself lost in his thoughts.  
"I've already arranged for where Bran will be going. I need my heirs spread far, I cannot risk a chance of death for my children." He started, now strolling back to the hazed window of his solar. A heavy sigh leaving, his face turned wan. "Catelyn trusted you, at least do this for Catelyn? Petyr, in her memory at least?" He saw the love fade from the man. It was true, making Petyr shift. Seeing how deeply Ned cared for his late wife, he had questioned if it was a good thing she didn't fancy him back. Noting the fact that he had now found himself with much deeper feelings for the Stark girl. A unfulfilled craving that should belong to the younger boy he used to be.

If Petyr were to be honest one last time, it would be simply stating that he had already decided. Before old Ned spoke his sodden words. Just acting the part, make people believe you have other intentions. Things he learned after every mistake. He already said 'yes' about hundred times in his head.   
Practicing how it would be said—how to cover up his authentic accent and feign a look of melancholy agreement.  
"Anything for an old friend Lord Stark, I'm sorry…I just—are you sure? I can take them both; but still, how are you sure your going to die?" He said, placing himself in a good enough position to change the conversation if need be. For Petyr, he had to admit ending Ned Stark's life would make a major shift in his plans. Ned was still deemed useful in his plans, but Littlefinger could make a few adjustments. The idea of having such a challenge placed in front of him made his blood boil with amusement. It was sick, yes, but the joy that came from a game such as this…the thought made him shiver. If he gained Sansa in the time to come, the North would be his.

"It's final Baelish." No hate in his words, just sorrow and the ache of lost sleep. "Now go, I wish to enjoy my final hours seeing my home."

'Tis ashame, Petyr thought. Holding Sansa in his arms, her body squirming to break free. To save her dying father. The thud of his body hitting the floor echoing all throughout Winterfell. For all to be heard, the betrayal of peace between lion and wolf. Lord Eddard Stark was dead.  
It truly had been his final moments. 'Tis ashame.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


This game was now Sansa's life. That's how things were planned. It had been only a fortnight of his playing, and yet, she had already become lost in strings of manipulation. This duplicity.

Carefully she watched, intrigued as he rested upon the stone sill of a frosted window. Lost in his thoughts he was, a common occurrence that took place on his proclaimed lessons. Despite her distaste towards him, he seemed to be the one keeping his distance. Their usual conversations only witty remarks and short talks on how to make her word a skill. Most nights, in his study, she didn't mind the quiet.  
That was different now. Two weeks and nothing? Not a clue to why he's doing this, giving her stacks of books to read. Even leading her on with hints of something, yet won't help her piece it together. Lord Petyr Baelish was strange, a hollow version of what the younger—once innocent Sansa—looked for in a man. The shell of what could've been a noble Lord, the looks of a king. Twisted by hate and sarcasm. He puzzled her, his intentions, his thought process. It intrigued just as much as the next. A peculiar man such as himself was given the custody of her? Perhaps another a string he pulled, though that was one of things she didn't care too much for. As long as she was able to be freed of that preposterous woman she called an aunt. To Sansa's dislike, it was true being in the care of this man had been much better than the being in the hands Lysa at the Vale.

With quiet precise steps, she approached him. Like a wolf who caught sent of prey, his head whipped around. Unsure if the surprise was feigned or not, she pressed on. "What are you doing my Lord? If you did not wish to teach me tonight then I best be off." She said, without a putting an ounce of care. Yet, he stopped her. Barely even turned, his hand had reached out and held her arm firmly. He jumped off, those green irises of his a brighter green than they have ever been. A thin smile playing softly at his lips. "I apologise sweetling," his new found name for her, deep down afraid to admit that she liked it. "It seems I get so lost in the stars." He chuckled, his time avoiding sleep becoming visible. Those green eyes lazily skimming over the room. The nameless book in his hand closing shut as he moved to where the fire burned brightest.

"Quite frankly, I believe you're right. The wheels in my head have seemed to come to a stop." He said, crouching. Something about those words saddened her, a lot of things she hated to admit to; they all seemed to happen around this man. The Lord was smart to a fault. He knew when she was frowning or scowling him, always having a clever retort to give. "Well, since you seem eager, I guess I can start with the first part." Patting the ground, she followed. Gently placing her tush on the soft deep green carpet next him. Just like the garden. Familiar to the feast.  
When she looked, from his peripherals she could see the color of green and grey peeking out from over his eyelashes. "How about you ask me what you want to know, and I'll answer you in truth." The Lord spoke as he removed each dark silver ring from his fingers. "You only get 5 clues and my advice as a bonus, got it?" He said grinning like a boy despite his age. But Sansa responded, picking up the first ring and sliding it on.  
The first question at the tip of her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed a few things around in my story to fit more with the Got universe, hope y'all enjoyed it!


	5. Petyr and Sansa| silver things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver rings, silver crowns. One knocked off, another made tighter. Silver things, the real beauty beneath gold.

_The northern crown fell like the snow that came down on the courtyard. Mead clashing with blood, and shades of grey furs clung to stone. Screams of loyal lords and ladies echoing throughout the halls._   
_All Petyr did was watch. Watching the inevitable events play out. Among lion and wolf. Letting his sage stained eyes fall upon the horrified cornflower ones that focused on the corpse. Stared at her dead father, his blood boring into her mind. At the moment, he was thinking. Still a young man, untouched by the current wisdom of Littlefinger, still sweet Petyr._   
_With a swift motion he grabbed her, the silver of his cloak covering that faded auburn hair of hers. Guilt fought with him, as she fought against his hold. Yet, he kept her close—the sudden flare of power rushing through him like the burn of wine, as his hand caught her tears and muffled the screams of despair for her dear father. As regret pulled at his wings, trying to lead the little wolf away._

_Mistakes were meant to be made, leaving her in the hands of Lysa—leaving her alone with nothing but lies to be whispered. Rumors about that fateful night. He hated Ned, though the distaste had stemmed from the purity Ned's heart seemed to hold, from the better life he lived. The luck he thought old Eddard Stark had._

_He would smile after that night. The smile not a true one, a practiced one, one that showed he had no memory of that night. A expression meant for the murderers, eyes not reaching the emotion of his lips—instead laughing at everyone below him. Mocking them from his place behind the throne. Petyr wasn't good, Petyr had left from him completely, thoughts now pulled by Littlefinger. Only Littlefinger._   
_Sitting in his solar every night he would, fiddling with the silver rings. Staring at the night sky as he wrote down the earnings of his distasteful business. Littlefinger was wrong and right. The night didn't hold answers, only memories of a boy he did not wish to see. A younger man of himself who witnessed a bittersweet life._

_The look of sad blue eyes and blood stained hair. The crash of glass and the fallen Northern crown. Just the thought of it brought a bleak smile to his lips._

*******

  


Another ring, slipped on with care, his hand unwavering. Another ring, another question. She thought carefully, he worked around her first question, the simple question used to see his strategy. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. An expression of interest resting over the destitute face of sleep. His tongue every so often flicking out like the snake he was, wetting the bottom of his lip, staring right through her. The thought of him seeing past her hard exterior was just an excuse to fuel some anger in her, make her hate him. Gently, tapping delicate digits over hardened silver, her brows knitted together. Each question needed to be worth it.  
She did only have 4 left.

"If my father asked you and not my Aunt, why was I left in her care?" A simple question, she spoke the words proudly. The hope of her words biting at his skin. Desire to make that mask crack with guilt by the end of their session. Although of course, guilt wasn't apart of Lord Littlefinger's few emotions. So the answer was cocksure.

"I thought it best if you were to stay with family. I was still merely a boy at the time. Just approaching the age of 20, I believe." He said, his words carried drowsily. She started to speak, but he cut her off. He wasn't finished.

"Those nine years ago, I thought I wouldn't have seen you again in the recent passing two." His words turned somber, the glint of regret in his eyes appearing as he spoke. The fire dimmed as he moved to face her better. Hand still resting in hers, legs now crossed as he continued to talk. "When I did see the girl I thought gone, when I saw how miserable you had become. I noticed my mistake. Noticed the mistake Petyr made out of hope you'd be better with a relative."   
His movements showed discomfort, the obvious thought of the memory making him cold. Even the usual warmth in his hand had gone. _The first crack_ , she thought. Seeing through the keyhole that which she wasn't given the key too. He had allowed her that taste of what he used to be. It was strategy, she knew well that he had already taken higher ground with this conversation. Yet, it gave her the feeling of something deeper. she had broken down one his walls, ripped away the layer of a mask that he wore so proudly.

It made her feel…powerful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a filler I guess, idk... Whenever I try Writing a story with multiple chapters I never finish. My brain kinda melts trying to make plot for fanfiction and my own ideas.


End file.
